Which makes what happens next feel worse. Mike’s email was still at the top f my inbox, asking me to play at his bar tonight. And after paying bills this week, I wasn’t going to turn away the cash.
“So…” she says, casual, hopeful. “What are you doing later? Want to hang out?”
My stomach drops.
Damn it.
I look away too fast.
“Uh— actually, I promised the guys I’d hit the gym. Tony’s been cool letting us crash on Artemis but every night is starting to stretch his hospitality. His Uncle owns the marina and checks the security cameras often—we kinds git him busted
The lie comes out smoother than it should. The marina part—not so much a lie.
Gym.
Yeah. Sure.
I couldn’t say I had a bar gig because I’m almost broke maintaining this image you like and trying to keep my mom’s house from collapsing and might need another line of credit because I nuked my credit card at Home Depot like an idiot.
She pouts a little.
It’s small. Barely there. But I see it.
“Oh. Okay,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “That’s fine. Totally fine.”
God.
She’s never anything but straight forward with me.
And I’m lying before breakfast.
I do the math in my head.
Set’s one to four.
If I clean up fast…
“You wanna come over around six?” I say. “We could cook or something. Grab a movie. Blockbuster run?”
Her face lights up.
“Actually, that’s perfect. I’ve been slacking on Pilates. Maybe I’ll shop with my friends after.”
Friends.
There it is again.
This whole mysterious friend group I never see.
But I just nod.
We kiss on the dock before splitting off.
Soft. Slow. Promising later.
By five twenty five, I’ve got the acoustic in my hands and I’m on the tiny corner stage like I never left college.
It’s not glamorous.
